Page 145

“Fuck you, Third Wheel,” I say, stacking the remaining slices and stuffing them in my mouth. I close the lid on the container and tuck it under my seat. “Are we playing cards or what?”

“Do you trust me?” Anna asks, while we stand outside my front door.

“Yes . . . why?”

“Because I did something . . . And now I’m kind of freaking out about it. Like, it was a crazy thing to do. But, I didn’t realize how crazy until now. I mean it’s bad, Casper. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her mouth is moving a mile a minute, and I can barely keep up because I’m distracted by all the hand-wringing. I’ve never seen her so freaked out. What the fuck? “I swear, I had only the best intentions, and then things kinda got away from me. But it’s too late to undo anything. And if you don’t like it, that’s okay! That’s totally okay! I can fix it. You can stay at my house and I’ll put everything back. I am pretty sure I just did a huge overstep, but at the time, I just wanted to do something nice and⁠—”

“Holy shit, woman. Breathe.”

She closes her mouth and inhales slowly through her nose before blowing out a narrow stream of air.

“Let’s see whatcha did,” I say, taking her hand and dragging her toward the front door. As soon as my fingers touch the knob, I sense a change. There’s a funny smell, not bad, just different. Like new paint and maybe . . . vanilla, tobacco, and leather?

I push the door open and step inside, Anna trailing behind me—and I freeze, dropping her hand. The sound of the door closing behind me barely registers.

My once-white walls are now black, well, maybe not that dark, but enough that it alters the way the light moves. That’s new. The walls don’t reflect anymore. It’s as if everything has been drawn in; the whole space feels tighter and quieter, the way I like it.

“What the fuck . . .” I mutter under my breath as I pad farther into the house that looks nothing like mine. The floors look different against the walls. There are lamps instead of the harsh overhead glare I’m used to. The furniture is rearranged, but doesn’t look the same among all the changes, and a couple pieces aren’t even mine.

Standing in the center of the living room, I turn in a slow circle, taking it in. The walls aren’t empty, not just with the paint color but there are pictures on the walls—my pictures—my sketches. They’ve been blown up and framed and look really fucking cool; each one is zoomed into the coolest parts—I step closer and study them. They’re my favorites. The favorite pieces I’ve ever done. Even Anna’s moth sketch is up here and I’m not even finished with her back.

My eyes catch down the hallway and I notice that a couple of my awards have been added to floating shelves, which means . . . I peek into the spare room with my desk and computer. This space used to be a graveyard for my unopened boxes, trophies, and shit I didn’t want to deal with.

It’s cleaned up.

And there’s a fucking plant by the window. A living plant.

“Jesus . . .” I breathe.

I continue down the hallway. I scrub a hand over my mouth before stepping inside my bedroom. I should have braced for it because goddamn.

It’s darker, deeper . . . sexier. I never thought I would describe a bedroom as sexy, but this one is. There’s a headboard; it brings focus to the whole room. The new bedding is cohesive, not overly matching, but it works. Pillows, not anything crazy like Anna’s but two pillows so two people can sleep here, and two larger pillows framed behind them. I think they’re called shams. More lamps. Matte black, low and close to the bed and exactly where I would reach for one. The nightstands are new, and above the lamps on each one is a framed black-and-white photo of my tattooed knuckles: HERE and NOW. She’s displayed them in reverse, so they read NOWHERE which is exactly the point—because of course she fucking understands it. She’s replaced my mirror with a more fitting one. Along a different wall is a framed photo with the view of the city—not just any view—my view. From the rooftop. Beside it is the selfie we took together.

How did she get that photo? How did she do any of this?

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, unable to take my eyes off the house that looks . . . real. Like somebody lives here.

“Please say that’s a positive unbelievable,” she says; her voice sounds muffled and when I turn around she’s got both hands covering her face.

“You painted my house,” I state. Then chuckle. “Black.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I did. Well, technically Logan, Kelly, Thor, and Frankie did. They painted while I distracted you.”

“They were in on this?”

“Yeah, they painted in the evenings while I distracted you at my apartment. Then, when you left for work in the mornings, I came here to arrange the furniture and set up everything else. Logan helped with the art. I asked him to gather sketches and some of your previous work, art that was personal—I wanted pieces that were significant to you. I moved your things around, and tried to organize them in places that made sense for you.” She scans my face, rubbing the back of her neck. “And added some new items, but I thought they looked good and you deserved a spot that was . . . nice.”

“Nice . . .”

“Also, they’ll be here in about . . .” She checks her phone. “Thirty minutes—for dinner.”

I swing my neck to her. “Guess we’ll have to make it a quickie.”

ANNA

There’s a knock at the door, just as I’m buttoning my jeans. Perfect timing. When I answer the door, Frankie stands there with a bakery box in her hands, smiling. Behind her, Kelly is tucked into Logan’s side, her black hair in a disheveled twist. She’s also holding some kind of basket with what appears to be some housewarming gifts for Casper.

“Hey!” Frankie hands me the box. “I brought a cheesecake for later.”